Too Late
by orianna-2000
Summary: The Phantom vanishes with Christine after his opera is performed, bitter and desperate for love. This short, dark story is inspired by a line from ALW's play but written in the spirit of Leroux. [Revised August 2007]


_This is a non-profit work of fan-fiction based upon _The Phantom of the Opera _novels and films. All related characters, places, and events, belong to Gaston Leroux, and Andrew Lloyd Webber, and are used without permission. This story belongs to the author, © 2005, revised __© __2007.

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**_Too Late_**  
**by Orianna-2000**

_Dedicated to my friend Angel, who inspired the writing._

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"Come with me, Monsieur, or we shall be too late!"

Madame Giry pulled the viscount de Chagney through the hysterical crowds. _Don Juan Triumphant_ had ended in terror, with the Opera Ghost vanishing into thin air along with his beloved Christine. Normally she would have considered Christine untouchable by the twisted man who lived in the opera's cellars. But faced with such supreme rejection, de-masked in front of hundreds of people, and betrayed by the one he held most dear, would the Phantom's infamous temper stay checked? A man could only take so much before he snapped, and this particular man had been provoked beyond human endurance. Madame Giry now feared for the young singer's safety, certainly her virtue, even perhaps her life.

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Several stories below ground, the Phantom pulled an unwilling Christine deeper into his lair. She stumbled along behind him, struggling but unable to free herself from his merciless grasp. As they rapidly descended a curving flight of stairs, her skirts flared behind her and her heart pounded with apprehension.

Virtually no light pierced the darkness, but the Phantom had no need of such luxuries. His eyes adapted to the Stygian atmosphere as if he had been born in the underworld, as if he had no place in the world of men. His thoughts raced bitterly on the events that had just occurred and the injustice of his entire life. As they neared the small landing where his boat lay waiting, he whirled suddenly on Christine, frightening her so that her eyes widened and her breath stopped. "Have you no compassion in you at all?" he hissed. "Must you deny me at every turn, knowing that without you I shall _never_ know the taste of love?"

She shivered, having no idea what to say. Her beloved Angel of Music had transformed into this bloodthirsty demon. The savage glimmer in his eyes rendered her throat dry and useless.

"No defense for yourself?" His voice hardened, and he spun her to the edge of the boat. "Then you shall join me in Hell, my dear. Get in!"

Trembling, she dared not disobey. Once in the boat, she inched as far away from this unfamiliar madman as she could. He thrust the pole into the black waters and propelled them further into the eternal night of his world.

When they approached the heart of his lair, a dim light began to filter through the mist. Candles lined the embankment where he anchored the boat, their flickering beauty a contrast to the stark devastation of the Phantom's unmasked features. After tying the boat in place, he rose, and with a smooth, swift motion, lifted Christine out and set her down. As soon as his hands left her waist, Christine backed away, her feet seeking safe ground.

He turned on her, barking a laugh at her furtive motions. "Looking for refuge, my dear? You won't find it here, I assure you. This is _my_ domain, and you are my guest."

"A guest can come and go as she pleases," Christine exclaimed with a trembling voice.

"Not _my_ guests." He raked his gaze across her disheveled costume, then reached forward and gripped her by the wrist. "This will not do. Come, you must dress properly."

Christine had not the will to fight as he pulled her into a dimly lit chamber. A polished ebony coffin lay against one wall, its wide lid propped open to reveal a lining of pure white satin. She refused to look at the obscene bed, fearing the possibilities this evening held.

The Phantom let go of her to open the antique wardrobe. From it he took a folded length of pearly silk. The lustrous material shimmered in the candlelight as he shook it out to reveal a wedding gown. He extended the gown gently to Christine, his voice rough, almost pleading, with emotion. "Put it on."

She shrank back, wide-eyed and aghast. Who was this demented man, to demand such things of her? Truly her beloved Angel had vanished.

Giving her no second chance, he gripped her arm fiercely and tore the bodice of her opera costume. Her skirt quickly joined the growing pile of shredded fabric on the ground. Only when she stood shivering in her undergarments did he stop. "Now, put it on!"

With fumbling urgency, Christine pulled the layers of silk around her, desperate to cover herself. He watched as she struggled with the hooks in the back, then stopped her efforts with a light touch. She jerked almost hysterically away from his hands, but he held her still and murmured softly, reassuringly, in her ear. His fingers deftly managed the hooks, closing the dress with gentle deliberateness.

Carefully, he brushed her hair back into place, smoothing the dark curls. He bent his head near her shoulder, inhaling her sweet fragrance. "Now," he whispered harshly, "It is time."

He turned her to face him, ignoring the tears which coursed down her pale cheeks. His voice lifted in song, weaving around Christine an enchanting melody of desire and commitment. This aria of devotion would be their wedding vows, this song would bind them forever. He lowered his voice, seducing her with its hypnotic resonance. When her eyes fluttered closed, and she slowly raised her arms to him, he enclosed her in an embrace. How sweet, at last, to hold his beloved within his grasp!

Her fingertips grazed his cheek, in the first caress he'd ever felt. His singing faltered as she stroked the horrid scars which lined his face, his voice cracked at the gentleness behind her touch. "Christine..." He exhaled her name, hardly able to breathe.

She blinked then, dazed and bewildered as the enchantment of song broke. Once her eyes focused on the Phantom, she stiffened and cried out in horror.

He groaned deeply as she fought against him, her fists flailing against his chest. "No, Christine," he growled. "No!"

"Please," she sobbed. "Let me go. Just let me go!"

"Never!" he retorted fiercely. "You did not hate me so when my face was still hidden from your view. Before you saw _this_, you were ready to love me. You did love me, and I will not allow that to change! I am still your angel, and you are _mine_!"

The Phantom's manner softened considerably once she tired and stopped struggling in his arms. He turned her, unresisting, away from him, and ever so tenderly kissed the side of her neck. "You are my wife, Christine, and I your husband. If we cannot exist together in the light, than we shall be one in this darkness, eternally bound to each other."

Christine whimpered, and leaned back against him, too lightheaded to stand on her own. "Yes," he whispered, pulling her to his body. "Come to me, my angel."

He pressed his lips to her skin, tracing a path along her neck. When he reached the shoulder of her gown, he pushed the band of silk aside to continue his path of chilling kisses. He nuzzled the top of her spine, twisting her hair up out of the way, then he let his fingers comb through her long curls. Christine remained silent as he slipped his hands around her waist and stroked her through the thin layers of silk she wore. Up to her breasts, down to her hips; wordlessly, he explored her body, becoming bolder with every passing moment.

Gently, the Phantom nipped the soft skin at the side of her throat, pleased to have raised gooseflesh. For good or ill, his actions were having an effect on her, and he felt drunk with delirious pleasure. "Trust me," he murmured. "Touch me..."

He slid his hands down Christine's arms, laced his fingers into hers, then drew one graceful arm up to press against his unmarred cheek. He could feel the heat of her body against him. The pressure of her lovely fingers against his skin felt divine, but more than anything he longed to see her face, to see her blue eyes drowsy with passion.

With a quick motion, he spun her around and cupped his hands against her jaw. Her eyes stared up at him, and he could pretend that her desperate expression was of lust rather than fear. Such beautiful skin, pink with ardor, not dread. Her moist lips quivering from intoxication, not fright. How he could deceive himself!

"Close your eyes," he said in a low, alluring tone. "Surrender yourself to me..."

Her eyes slid closed of their own volition. Unable to resist any longer, he bent his head and brushed his lips to hers, savoring the sensations which rippled through him. It seemed as though Christine relaxed into his grasp at last; he deepened the kiss, falling into the depths of dark bliss.

He released her so abruptly that she collapsed to her knees, wide-eyed with shock. Christine's gaze followed him in dazed bewilderment as he strode to the doorway and cursed. "Damn them! The fools," he muttered blackly.

She stood, clasping her arms around herself. Vaguely, in the distance, she could hear voices. Many voices, but one in particular rose above the others. "Raoul!" she shrieked desperately, and bolted toward the doorway. The Phantom's strong arms caught her before she could pass him.

"You think to leave me?" he sneered. "Before our marriage has been consummated? Oh, no. You have much more to endure, my love."

Ignoring her protests, he flung a switch hidden against the wall, and the room plunged into darkness, the entrance now blocked. "It will take them hours to break through, and by then we shall belong to each other eternally. That coldblooded nobleman will not have you! And if you do not give yourself willingly to me, then I shall have to compel you. For a husband has certain rights, would you not agree, my _wife_?"

He dragged her across the chamber easily, stopping beside the coffin. "Take off your gown, strip away your innocent modesty. There is no use resisting—tonight our wedded bliss begins, and this shall be our nuptial chamber."

It was too much. Unable to bear any more, Christine slumped against him in a faint.

When she woke, sometime later, it was to utter darkness, and she lay enveloped in soft warmth. A bitter flavor numbed her tongue; confusion reigned in her mind. All too quickly the memories returned, however, and she struggled to break free from the insane grasp which held her. Her strength did not prevail, and she gasped breathlessly. The quiet sound of silk rustled, and her futile motions stilled, her arms pinioned at her sides. A voice, dampened and calm, sounded at her ear.

"Be still, my Christine. You do not need to be afraid."

A touch, his touch, so gentle, against the skin of her face. His lips, grazing her softly. And suddenly, a pulsing flame within her body, urging her to return the embrace, whether out of fear or strange longing, she did not know. At the end, she gave in to the unexpected impulse, giving the Phantom the simple kiss he so long desired.

Their bodies entwined, defenseless against the onslaught of passion. At length they lay silent and tranquil in each others arms, cocooned in darkness, the beating of their hearts the only sound. Christine touched the Phantom's face, only to find it damp with tears. She could find no words, her mind could not think clearly, but the devastating fear had left her. Now she felt only pity for the creature in her arms.

"Christine," he whispered faintly, with labored breath. "I love you..."

She lay her tear streaked cheek against his chest, and then the flaming darkness consumed them both.

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Madame Giry insisted on being the first to enter the Phantom's bedchamber, once they'd forced the door open. She did not think he would strike her down on sight, and, to be honest, she feared greatly what they might find within. Hesitantly she stepped inside. Her torch illuminated a room empty of occupants. A trick? She did not think so, but her heart lurched at the sight of the closed coffin.

"Well, Madame?" Raoul called impatiently from the door. The others behind him waited, eager for bloodshed. When no answer came, the viscount pushed into the chamber, torch raised high... and saw no one, save the aging ballet instructor. "What kind of devilry is this," he demanded. "Where are they?"

Giry's eyes strayed to the coffin, but she placed a restraining hand on a horrified Raoul. "They are at peace, Monsieur. Leave them be."

"No!" He crossed the room rapidly. Tossing the torch aside, he lifted the coffin's lid. The sight within made him lurch back. His beloved Christine, her features smooth and pale, her body draped in an ivory silk wedding gown, enclosed within the embrace of a man whose face held evidence of recent tears. Only when he realized the man lay with the mangled side of his face downward did he recognize him as the Phantom of the Opera.

Raoul sank to his knees numbly. His heart twisted with grief. "Why...? How?"

"Poison, Monsieur." Madame Giry indicated the shattered remains of an apothecary bottle on the floor beside the coffin. "The Phantom is at rest now, and I believe he has found in death what he could not in life. Come, let us go. We were too late. There is nothing more we can do here."

_He won..._ was the only thought in Raoul de Chagney's mind as Madame Giry led him out of the Phantom's lair._ He won._


End file.
